The Borrowed Days
by BabalooBlue
Summary: Laethanta na Riabhaiche (Irish): The Borrowed Days. March is a month around which lots of weather lore has accumulated. Its final three days were often called 'the borrowed days'. It was believed they had been borrowed by March from April. They were considered days of wintry relapse & ill-omen when no enterprise was willingly begun. Trigger warning for self-harm, suicidal thoughts.
1. Chapter 1

_"Pain is memory without witness or corroboration. It isn't real to anyone else (…)._

_They can pretend it isn't happening because it isn't happening to them."_

Will Eaves, Murmur

* * *

"Oh, Doctor Wilson, you're an angel! Thank you so much!"

House rolled his eyes as he listened to the old lady singing Wilson's praises.

"Go on, give him a hug too, he loves that," he said to nobody in particular. The office was empty; he had sent the team home a while ago and had been sitting at his desk since. There was a coffee mug with a shot of bourbon in front of him. It wasn't the first today.

Snow had begun to fall just before he told the team to go for lunch. By the time they got back, the sky outside his window had turned gray and the hospital grounds white with snow. It was now late afternoon and the office was dark. He didn't care. He didn't need to see past his desk or rather, past the cup.

It was late March and for but one brief respite when temperatures rose to bearable earlier in the month, it seemed like winter would never end. Each morning was a struggle even though the heating was set to kick in long before he had to get up. Getting out of bed was a battle on the best of days, but in winter it took even more time and back-up from chemical troops. The low temperatures played havoc with his pain levels, and for the last week or so they had been barely manageable. It wasn't just the hole in his leg; it was an overall soreness and ache. It felt like the cold seeped into his entire body. And then there was the impact on his life in general – in snow and ice, sidewalks were harder to navigate, and he hated having to clear his car from ice in the mornings. So he relied more and more on Wilson to give him a lift into work and back. That meant he had to adapt to Wilson's schedule.

Which was why he was still sitting here instead of being at home, drugged up to his eyeballs, on his couch.

"_Wilson_! Get your hands off that nice lady!" House hollered when he heard footsteps disappearing down the corridor. He downed the last of the bourbon just before Wilson stuck his head into the office.

"Very funny, House." He looked around. "Why are you sitting in the dark?"

_Because I don't have energy to waste on getting up to turn on the lights. _

"Because I was hoping you and I could… when you're done with work… ah, never mind, you look like you've got a headache."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the offer, but I prefer lights on." He eyed the cup in front of House. "Want a lift? I'm ready to call it a day."

"Thought you'd never ask." House levered himself out of the chair and turned to grab his cane and backpack. Whether it was the alcohol or the pain, he didn't know, but as he pivoted his leg gave way and he just about caught himself on the back of the chair. An immediate look towards Wilson showed him ready to rush to his aid. House closed his eyes and shook his head. "'m fine." He didn't need help. He needed more Vicodin, more alcohol and his couch. The order didn't matter.

When he opened his eyes again and the dizziness had passed, Wilson had retreated to the door. Maybe he had never moved. Who knew. Drugs and alcohol could make for interesting experiences at times, but they were the only things getting him through the day at the moment.

"Ready when you are." He slung his backpack over his shoulder and picked up his coat and cane. Wilson looked doubtful, so he made an extra effort not to let the pain show when he headed for the door.

On passing Wilson, he stopped, looked straight into the other man's face and said, "Did you get Botox on your lunch break or something? You look weirder than usual."

Wilson winced slightly and touched his left cheek. "Went to the dentist earlier. My face is still numb. Don't know what they gave me this time, but it's taking forever to wear off."

"The things you do to meet that cute redhead at the dentist's office… you should pick someone who works at a liquor store or a steak house." House had to keep talking while they were heading down the corridor or Wilson would notice that he was slower than usual. He walked a fine line here. It was okay to need help or show weakness, but only to a degree. Wilson needed to be needed, but he would have been unable to deal with today's situation had he known its full extent. So House kept talking about the cute assistant he only vaguely remembered while he dragged his tired and aching body towards the elevators. Everything was up several notches, and he only had enough energy left to work on one thing. Chatter and pretending to keep up with Wilson was pushing him to his limits.

So he was grateful when Wilson stopped off at his office. He took the opportunity to lean against the wall and take the weight off his bad leg while Wilson got his things.

"I'll see you in the morning. Have a good evening, Sandy!" Wilson put on his coat and turned to House. "Ready?"

Even though Wilson had parked in the garage that morning the cold hit House like a hammer in the chest when they stepped out of the elevator. Oblivious, Wilson walked ahead towards his car, still talking.

"You remember how Pearson in Cardiology…" Wilson stopped abruptly, one hand in his coat pocket feeling for his car keys. It came out empty. "How…?"

"Other pocket, you idiot," muttered House even though Wilson had probably never in his life carried keys in his right-hand pocket. Wilson knew this too. He patted all his pockets and paused when he felt something in the right one. Confused, he slid his hand inside and pulled out what he'd found, only to stare at it in silence.

House limped over. "What the heck, Wilson?"

"It's… it's a knife," Wilson whispered.

"It's a switchblade," House corrected him quietly. And a very nice one at that. "Who pissed you off that badly, Jimmy?"

Wilson stood there, bewildered, and shook his head. "Shut up, House." He suddenly dropped the knife, took a step back and struggled out of his coat.

"And this isn't my coat!" He threw the garment to the ground and glared at both items with a mixture of fear and disgust.

"I hate to interrupt your meditations, but are we calling a cab to take us home?"

"No." Wilson turned on his heel and marched back to the elevator, briefcase in hand. "I keep a spare set of keys in my desk."

"Of course you do."

House used his cane to poke around the coat. It looked exactly like Wilson's, like any other coat a professional might wear to work. Beige, classic cut, medium size. In one word: unremarkable. Except for the contents of its right-hand pocket. The others, including the inside pocket, were empty. He bent down slowly, picked up the coat and took the knife.

Wilson's car warmed up a lot faster than his own but still not fast enough for House's taste. His leg felt like ice with hot daggers poking through. Wilson occasionally touching his cheek gingerly was a poor but welcome distraction.

"You need to find a new dentist."

"No, I don't. He's a great dentist," Wilson said without taking his eyes off the road. "Once this snow has cleared, I'll drive down and return the coat including contents. Whoever owns this probably has returned mine already."

House laughed. "You really think this guy would return a coat? To a dentist?"

Wilson cast a quick glance at House. "I know you took the knife. When we get to your place, you put that into the boot with the coat. Nobody will know we found it."

"Yeah, you keep thinking that." Whoever took Wilson's coat would have figured out by now what had happened. The guy wasn't the sharpest tool in the box, or he wouldn't have made this mistake in the first place. But it didn't take much to tell a car key from a switchblade. House didn't even need to touch it to know there wasn't a key in his jeans pocket but something notably heavier than that.

Traffic was slow – too slow for House who just wanted to get home. As comfortable as Wilson's Volvo normally was, today only his couch would do.

When Wilson finally pulled into House's street, the sky had gone even darker, snow was still falling, and it was clear that snow clearing services, such as they were, wouldn't be able to keep up.

House opened the passenger door and pulled himself out and up, careful to put as little weight on his right leg as possible. He stood for a moment and contemplated the distance to the front door. Too far for his liking. Too much snow for someone with only one good leg and a cane. Too slippery.

He also knew there was no chance Wilson would leave until he had reached the door. So whatever acrobatics he would be performing would happen before an audience.

House bent down into the open passenger door. "Wanna come in for dinner? Or are you on liquids only for the rest of the day? I've got plenty of those."

You might as well turn your audience into participants, that way they carried at least some responsibility for the performance.

"Liquids are probably the only thing you've got in there." Wilson hesitated with his gaze resting on House. Then he glanced at the sky. "Yeah, okay. The weather isn't going to get any better. Nobody should be out driving in this anyway."

House knew Wilson was a careful driver and could easily make the drive home. He had also registered the quick look cast at the cane and then at the path to the house. But at this point, he didn't care. He knew. Wilson knew. It was just one of those things.

After Wilson had found parking a little down the street, they slowly made their way along the snow-edged sidewalk. House knew Wilson kept close in case he slipped, and he didn't object. He was cold, he was in pain, and he definitely didn't trust his own feet to keep him safe, alcohol or no alcohol. He would rather rely on Wilson to keep him upright in an emergency. So he accepted Wilson's shoulder where it was – in perfect sync with his own, almost touching but not quite – and decided, for once, not to crack a joke about it.

His apartment was dark and not as warm as he had hoped even though the heating had been on all day. But coming in from the cold, it was a relief at least for a few minutes which was good enough for the moment. Before he even dropped his backpack, he turned up the thermostat to the hilt and ignored Wilson's curious look.

"Switch on the lights," he said to Wilson and disappeared towards the kitchen. One of the cabinets held a bottle of the good booze he kept for days like today – cold, dark and painful. Not a celebratory drink. More medicinal than anything else. Wilson would probably go for a beer from the fridge, but he put two glasses in his coat pockets anyway.

When he reached the couch, he gingerly lowered himself into it, noticing the pressure of the knife in his pocket. Tempted as he was to take it out, he left it there for now. He dropped his cane, set out the glasses on the table and lobbed his coat in the direction of the other chair, knowing Wilson wouldn't be able to resist and put it away. By the time he had taken a couple of pills and poured himself a glass, the initial warmth he had felt on coming in had dissipated, so he knocked back a first sip and pulled the throw from the back of the couch. It would do little to help the pain in his leg but together with the alcohol it should warm him up and take off the edge a bit.

Meanwhile, Wilson had sat down in his usual chair, a keen look on his face.

"What's going on?" he finally asked.

House knew it had taken him a lot to even ask. "Nothing, it's winter."

Wilson sat there, waiting for further explanation. When none was forthcoming, he got up with a sigh. "Fine. Let's see if you have anything edible in the house. You better line your stomach with something if you intend to pour ridiculous amounts of alcohol in."

"You call it ridiculous, I call it barely adequate," House muttered more to himself than to Wilson. Then, a little louder, "we should get takeout."

Wilson's laugh confirmed what he had been thinking already. No business would deliver today, not in this weather. He heard kitchen cabinets being opened and closed again. Then the fridge door.

"I'm surprised that you actually have more than stale bread and peanut butter in the house. It's not _much_ better, but it'll do. I'll make us something."

House had no idea what Wilson could have possibly found that could be turned into a decent dinner, but he didn't care much anyway. He wasn't even hungry. But not having made it down to the cafeteria for lunch, it would be wise to eat something now before the meds and alcohol ate a hole into his stomach lining.

With Wilson pottering around in the kitchen, he turned on the TV and zapped around, trying to find something to keep his attention. There was no escaping the news from all sorts of weather-beaten places with reporters spouting nonsense in the snow. It seemed that winter was something everyone protected themselves against with warm clothes, cheerful hats and winter-spiced lattes, while pets happily snuggled up with each other. Amid all the coziness, he alone appeared to suck all the cold around him into his bones.

He eventually settled on a mindless show about restoring old motorcycles people kept inexplicably finding in barns, refilled his tumbler and finally pulled the switchblade out of his pocket.

It had a nice, solid feel to it and lay comfortably in his palm. How anyone would not notice this missing from a pocket was beyond him. But then, its owner had just come out from Wilson's dentist, so he might have been a little out of it.

This knife was on a whole other level than the ones he had encountered until now. He thought back to his childhood and the cheap pocket knives he and every boy he knew used to carve their initials into all sorts of available surfaces. This was serious. The body was dark, almost black, some kind of horn – not deer, maybe buffalo, which would make this a pretty expensive item. He noticed the beautiful file-work along the top of the blade as he ran his finger over it. The buttons had intricate mosaic-type markings. But the heft and size made it clear that this wasn't a toy. It wasn't big, it just about fit nicely into his hand. It could be a collector's item, but a couple of light scratches on the hilt spoke against that. Besides, who would carry a collector's item around in a coat pocket?

House finally flicked open the blade. The firing mechanism was extremely quiet. The blade gleamed as it caught the light, and the steel shimmered almost golden.

"House!" Wilson suddenly stood over him with a plate in his hands. It was too late to pretend, so he just left the open blade where it was. "Dinner will be another half hour, the sauce needs more time. So I made us some garlic bread."

"Not like you can eat any leavened bread right now," House replied. It was Passover after all. "So I assume this is all for me."

Wilson completely ignored the taunt. There was a fearful glint in his eyes. "Put that away," he hissed.

"Why? You want to keep it? Finders keepers, I guess." House held the knife out for Wilson to take. Not that he would. As expected, he bit his lip and said nothing, and instead turned on his heel to march back into the kitchen. House closed the blade and set it next to his drink. Wilson had left the plate of bread, so he took a slice to munch on.

The show he had picked was boring as hell, but there was the occasional glimpse of a great machine he could imagine himself on – in better weather, of course.

Every time he took a sip of bourbon, his eyes fell on the knife sitting on the table - the file-work gleaming and looking way too pretty for something as serious as this. It held a strange attraction. Or not so strange, maybe, considering how his day had been so far. While he was still pondering what it was that was keeping his attention, Wilson reappeared with two plates of pasta. Apparently, he hadn't only managed to make garlic bread from the stale stuff in House's bread bin but also thrown together a decent meal.

Wilson sat down but didn't touch his food. Eventually, House looked up from his plate, and asked around a mouthful of pasta and sauce, "what's up with you? Has pasta been added to the list of _verboten_ foods during Pesach? You could've figured that out before you started cooking."

"Put that thing away, and I'll start eating." He looked pointedly at the knife.

"_That thing_ is quite an expensive and professional item. I think you should take that into account before you decide what to do with it." House slipped it back into his pocket. "Whoever owns it knows by now that it's missing. He was dumb enough to lose it but probably not dumb enough that he can't retrace his steps and figure out where it is."

"So you keep it safe for now. Right." Wilson gave him a sarcastic look over his plate of pasta.

"Well, yes. You're not going anywhere tonight, and if someone turns up asking for it, it's probably better they find it on me than on you." Nobody would show up anywhere tonight. And if they did, it would be at Wilson's place, not here.

Wilson snorted and continued eating. House had to admit, the pasta was much better than anything he could have scraped together. Not that he would have even bothered. Alone, he would have just put the booze and the pills next to the couch and be done for the night. As much as he usually enjoyed having the apartment to himself, Wilson's presence tonight was probably a good thing.

Having cleared his plate, he stretched out on the couch and pulled the throw over himself. Wilson took everything back to the kitchen and called from there, "I'll put the leftovers into the fridge. Please eat them before they turn green."

"Yes, mom." House settled back in with the next mindless show and another shot of bourbon. Wilson would probably join him soon, but first, he would make sure the kitchen was shipshape.

Now that he was beginning to relax – bourbon and the increased temperature doing their job – House felt the pain more keenly than before, even though it should be dulled by drink and heat. All he could hope for now was to be lulled to sleep by TV, alcohol and drugs.

He tried to re-situate himself to ease the pressure on his right shoulder when he felt the knife pressing into this groin inside his pocket. He pulled it out again and set it on his stomach.

It gleamed and shone – in a quiet way. Nothing flashy or even tacky.

It opens just as quietly as before. Understated. Serious.

House's thumb grazes the blade. It is razor-sharp. Businesslike.

The short line he traces along the inside of his arm is thin and elegant and bright. The pain is sweet and acute, and sharp as a needle.

He feels his breath slow down. Everything around him is being drawn together - the room, the heat, the light, the sound of the TV, the pain in his leg. His entire focus is on his arm, on that thin, bright line. Nothing else exists.

He presses a little harder, and the focus sharpens even more as the intensity increases. Inside the focus, everything is sharp and clear. Everything else around the edges is hazy.

Vision, hearing, pain, all zooms in on his arm.

Coming through the haze, there is a strange choking sound, one that doesn't belong there.

His eyes are still glued to this beautiful, glistening ruby line, but he can feel the sound demands his attention, it pulls at him. Unrelenting.

House looked up to find Wilson standing over him with an odd expression on his face. Fear, and something else. Something old that had nothing to do with this moment.

There was nothing to say, no way to explain. So he silently set the knife aside, pulled down his sleeve, sat up and poured a finger of bourbon into each glass. He nodded towards Wilson's seat and pushed one glass over.

Wilson still hadn't said a word either. He stood there frozen in place. Spooked.

"Sit down."

Wilson sat – slowly, carefully. As if he wasn't sure the chair, in which he had been sitting for years, would be able to take his weight.

"Drink. You look like you need it."

Wilson reached for the glass and took a sip. His forehead creased. He didn't like bourbon. His eyes were still glued to the knife which was now on the coffee table.

There was a small trace of blood on the blade. House reached over and closed it.

Wilson looked up. He took a second sip. His eyes flicked to House's arm.

"Y...you're...bleeding. I'll get the kit from the bathroom," he muttered and made to stand up.

He was right. There was blood oozing through his shirt.

"You're going nowhere," House said and pulled Wilson back down into his seat. He rolled his sleeve up and noticed Wilson averting his eyes. "This has nothing to do with you."

The cut was clean, and not very deep. It would close by itself. Still, no harm in covering it up, especially if it stopped Wilson resembling a deer caught in someone's headlights.

"Look," he said and held his arm up. Wilson flinched. "It's nothing, okay. It's not even close to where it could do any damage. You understand this, right? You're a doctor. I'm a doctor. You know this would have to be way deeper to even be remotely dangerous. Wilson?"

Wilson said nothing, just stared at House's arm.

With a sigh, House pulled himself up. He topped up Wilson's glass before making his way to the bathroom.

"I'll put a bandage on, just so you'll stop freaking out."

He took out his first aid kit and sat down on the edge of the tub.

He wasn't quite sure what exactly he had been trying to do. He knew what he had achieved – a temporary reprieve. The fresh pain distracted from the old, dark one for a short time. He took back control for a few moments.

What would have happened if Wilson hadn't interrupted? Clearly, Wilson had his own ideas. But he was wrong.

House had an exit strategy, and this wasn't it.

He pulled off his shirt and threw it into a corner. Then he quickly swabbed the wound and applied a dressing. He wasn't worried about infection. What concerned him more was Wilson's reaction.

Wilson was still in the same spot when House returned. The only sign that he had moved in House's absence was his empty glass, so he poured him some more. Maybe alcohol would help. At the very least it would put him to sleep. House himself could feel tiredness finally replacing the cold in his bones.

He settled back on the couch even though he would have preferred the bed now. But he wasn't sure if he could leave Wilson alone.

The TV was on some gardening show. "Change the channel, not interested in growing parsley this year."

No reaction from Wilson.

"Jimmy," House finally said with some urgency. Wilson looked up. "What's going on?"

"Don' know," he muttered. The alcohol was taking effect. "Could ask you the same question."

"I said it before. It's winter. I'm in pain. This has nothing to do with you."

"Fuck dat, House." Wilson appeared wide awake for a second. "That's just another way of sayin', none of your business."

That's exactly what it was. He wouldn't understand. He wouldn't want to understand. This was territory he couldn't go with Wilson.

"Exactly. It _isn't_ any of your business." House reached for the knife, flicked it open and watched Wilson flinch again. He slowly wiped it on his jeans, restoring the blade to its previous shine. Then he set the knife back on the coffee table. "If you're worried I'll off myself on your watch – don't. I won't. Besides, there are better ways. Less messy."

"House!" There was something comical about Wilson protesting under the influence, but House managed to hide his amusement.

"Come on. Don't look so shocked. You know this as well as I do." House took a sip from his glass, only to realize he had actually had enough. "Don't pretend you haven't thought about it. Show me the doctor who claims he hasn't, and I'll show you a liar."

The look on Wilson's face changed from shock to something else. Distress.

So this was it. It was something of a guess on House's part, albeit an educated one. Wilson was not the happy-go-lucky, friendly young doctor he wanted people to think he was. He had his own baggage which he didn't talk about. Not until he was forced to. Any other day, House would have pounced on this opportunity to dig deeper, to make Wilson go where he apparently didn't want to go. But today, he really was in no shape. There was the time after Amber's death which House regarded as Wilson's self-imposed exile, his withdrawal from House. It was a blank space in the timeline of their friendship. Until now, House had very little knowledge of what had happened in Wilson's life in that period. He might have just been given a clue. House tucked it away for safe-keeping and future investigation. This could be interesting to explore another day.

It didn't take long and there was light snoring coming from Wilson's chair. House sat up and looked over.

His friend's head was tipped back, his throat exposed. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and there was a small red speck near the collar. At first glance, it could have been blood. But considering Wilson's reluctance to look at, never mind touch the knife, it had to be pasta sauce.

House took his throw and covered Wilson with it. There was no way he would wake him now to drag him over to the couch. He would have a sore neck in the morning, but he kind of deserved that for being such a stupid sissy about the knife.

He looked at the knife on the table. It just sat there, still beautiful. His left arm ached a little when he touched the bandage. Left alone, it didn't even show on his radar. This wasn't his tool of choice. But the knife was a beautiful piece, and he would be sorry to let it go. Because that's what he was going to do. Wilson would say it was the right thing to do. House didn't know about that. It was the logical thing, no doubt.

Its owner would by now be looking for it and, by extension, for Wilson. House couldn't do anything about the fact that Wilson had - unknowingly - taken the coat and knife. But he could make sure that everything was returned to its rightful owner and, hopefully, there wouldn't be anything to worry about.

He would put the knife back with the coat in Wilson's car in the morning. For now, he needed his bed and some sleep more than anything else. The alcohol and pills had finally lowered the pain to a dull drone in the background – which was the best he could hope for.

Having made it back into a vertical position, he stopped by Wilson's chair to pull up the throw a bit. A glimmer on the table caught his eye, and he realized this couldn't wait until morning. He had his exit strategy, and it was nothing like this. But this knife had a pull he might not be able to resist.

Also, leaving it right there, in front of Wilson, for him to see the moment he woke up, seemed like a dangerous thing to do. He still needed to think about what Wilson had revealed while trying not to reveal anything. Until he had figured out what exactly was going on, he didn't want to run any risk.

So he pocketed the knife and took Wilson's keys. He didn't bother putting on a coat, he wouldn't be long. It was a decision he regretted the moment he opened the front door. If anything, the dark cold hit him even more viciously than before.

He could turn back to get his coat. But he knew that once he returned to the safety of his warm apartment, he wouldn't leave again. Besides, Wilson's car was only halfway down the block. He gritted his teeth and set off.

At least the street lights showed up the ice on the pavement, so he could avoid the worst spots. It was quiet now, there were no cars about, no people either. He was the only one crazy, or determined, enough to venture out at this hour.

When he finally reached Wilson's car, he opened the knife one last time to wipe both handle and blade on his t-shirt. It gleamed fiercely in the light of the nearest street lamp. House paused for a moment and then slipped it back into the right-hand pocket of the stranger's coat. As if it had never been anywhere else.

This could still come back to haunt them, but there was nothing he could do about that. With some luck, there would be a peaceful exchange of coats and contents at the dentist's office without any further consequences. In House's experience, people usually went the path of least resistance. Hopefully, that also applied to criminals with bad teeth, and illegal knives in their pockets.

The way back to his apartment felt much longer. It was snowing lightly, and the cold was beginning to seep back in around the adrenaline which had carried him out here. Like a dye, he could feel it permeating his body slowly until it was bone-deep.

He would have to take another bourbon back to bed with him once he had made it back home, just to warm up.

His cold fingers cramped around the cane, and he fumbled the keys trying to unlock the front door. But then he finally pushed it open and crossed the hall, careful not to slip on the tiles. His own door was on the latch, and he stopped for a second before going in. A sliver of light and the smell of garlic and herbs invited him in. Wilson would be where he left him, sleeping off the alcohol and whatever was ailing him.

House brushed the last bit of snow off his shoulders and stepped back into the warmth of his apartment.


	2. Chapter 2

_"We have this strong notion that only we can know ourselves, but maybe we make better sense in others' eyes."_

Will Eaves, Murmur

* * *

Some nights seemed like one long-held breath, until the heating started and he could hear the water gurgling in the pipes.

He could already tell tonight would be like that.

But not for the usual reasons.

The apartment was quiet. The heating wouldn't be kicking in for another five hours or so. Wilson was asleep. House rubbed his thigh and turned over to reach for the Vicodin but there was only empty space where it usually sat. It must still be on the coffee table. Either that, or it fell out of his pocket when he returned the knife to Wilson's car. He didn't want to wake Wilson, so he would have to resort to his back-up in the bathroom.

Of course he hadn't been able to sleep after coming in from the cold. After lying awake for the best part of an hour, he dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom to take a couple of pills and soak in the tub until he had warmed up, or the pain in his leg had settled down, or until he had solved the puzzle that was Wilson – whichever came first.

While waiting for the tub to fill, he checked the wound on his arm. As expected, it looked fine, so he slapped the bandage back on.

This was not the first time he had used new pain to fight old pain. It was a reliable way to get relief but not something he used lightly or played around with. Over the years, he had felt desperate enough maybe a handful of times. Tonight's episode had been a mix of desperation and opportunity. If he hadn't come across the knife he would have just stuck with alcohol and pills and some stupid TV to lull him to sleep. Just like so many other nights. But the knife had been there – and Wilson. He had been so wrapped up in his own misery that he hadn't considered how Wilson would react. Looking back, the usual righteous indignation was probably what he had counted on. If he had needed further proof this showed how pain impaired his thinking. The damage was done now, though, so he needed to figure out how to deal with it.

As he stripped and then lowered himself gingerly into the hot water, he pictured Wilson's reaction again, starting with the moment he found the knife. There had been confusion, followed immediately by fear and disgust in equal measures. Nothing worrisome, but maybe a little over the top for what had actually happened. Later on then, there was annoyance with House for not leaving the knife where it was – out of sight. And then, of course, there had been something akin to panic when he had encountered House actually using the knife. It had been more than that, though. There had been a glint in Wilson's eyes that House could have sworn was attraction. Whether he had been aware of it or not, Wilson had been just a tiny bit fascinated by the whole thing.

And this was the really interesting bit. Much more interesting than panic and disgust and whatever else Wilson had displayed before.

The hot water welcomed him, and he sighed with relief. For a few precious moments, he leaned back, thought of nothing and just basked in the feeling of his muscles slowly relaxing.

House knew Wilson well, he had seen him in all sorts of situations over their many years of friendship, not all of them happy ones. He probably knew more about Wilson than his own family did. Not once had any of them visited, at least not since Wilson had moved to Princeton. House had met them, a long time ago, on a weekend visit with Wilson on some holiday or other. He remembered a long, boring dinner he had only survived with the help of several glasses of wine. There had been Wilson's father, a tidy, self-contained man in middle management who only spoke when spoken to. To House, he appeared to be more of a spectator on the sidelines than an actual participant.

The reason for his withdrawal might or might not have been his wife, Wilson's mother, a teacher. She was a pretty brunette, or at least she had been when House had met her. She would definitely still be brunette, House decided, even if it came from a bottle at this point. Mrs. Wilson didn't seem like a woman prepared to go gray and admit defeat to age.

Wilson's older brother, on the other hand, was a non-entity for House. He had met the man but had not been able to read him. All he knew was what Wilson himself had told him. Lawyer, married, two kids. Successful. Normal.

A successful family. If it hadn't been for the younger Wilson. The one House's Wilson couldn't live without even if he was for all intents and purposes gone.

Danny.

Who wasn't mentioned at that dinner. Who House didn't know about until years later, when he followed Wilson out into the cold one night.

Danny who was probably a bit of an embarrassment to an otherwise very normal, very successful family.

James Wilson, on the other hand, fit right in.

House's image of Wilson's family, formed during that one weekend, had needed serious adjustment once he'd found out about Danny. Actually, even his image of Wilson had needed correction: his friend was capable of keeping big secrets. He had always known that Wilson wasn't all he appeared to be, that he ran deeper, and darker, than he wanted people to know.

But none of this explained why Wilson was so freaked out by a switchblade in his pocket. Not something you encountered every day, but not a reason to lose it either. House had his suspicions, but he decided this point needed further investigation, and possibly testing, since he didn't have enough data yet to come to even a preliminary conclusion. He would have to see what Wilson had to say for himself in the morning, now that the offending item was out of the house.

Together with massage, the hot water had relaxed his muscles to a point that he could at least breathe easier and think clearly again. He probably still wouldn't be able to sleep, though. For a moment he considered running more hot water, but then decided against it. He would have to return to his bed eventually, and his leg was as good as it was going to get tonight.

He grabbed a towel and while the water was draining, dried himself off and decided to change the bandage on his arm which was soaked now. He would have to-

The door knob rattled. "House! I need the bathroom." A short pause, and then, louder, "Open the door!"

Wilson. Apparently, not safely asleep in his chair but awake and combative.

"Give me a minute, not decent here," House muttered. He couldn't even remember locking the door earlier, but he was relieved that he had.

"House! Open the fuckin' door!" Wilson either hadn't heard him or didn't care.

"You can hold it another minute, a naked cripple and wet tiles are not a good combination."

The first-aid kit slipped out of his wet hands and clattered onto the tiles, scattering its contents everywhere. "Dammit," House cursed under his breath. He would have to replace everything.

"House! Let me in!" Wilson banged on the door now. He sounded more upset than a full bladder warranted. "Don't… whatever it is you're doing, please stop and open the fuckin' door!"

"Wilson, calm down, I'm trying to get dressed and pick bandages off the floor at the same time." He gave up on the bandages for now and instead tried to retrieve the towel he had lost in the attempt to pick up the box from the floor. Once Wilson had regained control of his drink-addled mind and remembered there was a second, unfortunately unlocked, door to the bathroom he would be here in a flash, and House had no desire to let Wilson see him in his full misery.

"House! Please..." More urgent this time, and then silence. Two seconds later, the door from the bedroom flew open. House straightened and pulled the towel up off the floor, just about covering his lower half.

In the open door stood Wilson, hair as wild as the look on his face. In quick succession, his eyes went from House's arm, where the cut stood out starkly, to the towel, to the items scattered across the floor, and stopped at the scalpel.

"What?" House just about managed to keep his balance while he wrapped the towel around his hips. "The door was locked for a reason. If you want to see me naked, you need to at least bring flowers. Wine would also help."

Wilson didn't appear to hear him. For a moment, his eyes flicked between the scalpel on the floor and House's arm, and then they stopped again on the cut.

House tucked the towel in. He really didn't fancy Wilson getting a good look at everything. Even wrapped in the towel he felt exposed, and he needed to sit down. The tub was a few steps away. His cane was hooked over the door Wilson was blocking now. He stood, more or less naked, in the middle of a floor covered in first-aid items, without any support.

Wilson, in the meantime, hadn't moved. His eyes were glued to the cut on House's arm.

"Wilson, give me my cane."

"What were you doing in here?"

"What the fuck do you mean, what was I doing? What does it look like?" His leg was beginning to cramp, he had ruined all that he had achieved over the last half hour, and Wilson was still spaced out.

"I… I don't know. There's another knife on the floor. Where is the other one?"

"You look like you've seen a ghost. You've been looking like that all evening. And you're not making much sense. _This_ is a scalpel." House shuffled backwards until he reached the tub. With a sigh, he sat down on the cold edge and readjusted the towel. "From my first-aid kit. The knife is where it's supposed to be."

Apparently, Wilson couldn't connect the dots because he started looking around and even darted back into House's bedroom where House heard him rummaging around. If House hadn't been so tired and in pain, this would've been his chance to get his cane or, at the very least, his clothes from where he had tossed them earlier.

When Wilson reappeared, he ended up back in the door, effectively blocking House's exit, with the cane still out of his reach.

"What did you think was going on, Wilson?" He decided to push a little.

"D-don' know," Wilson ruffled his hair even further. "...thought you had done something. To yourself. The… the door was locked."

"Yeah, people tend to lock the door when they have a bath. Especially when they want to be left alone. What exactly did you think I would do to myself? I told you I had no intentions to kill myself with that knife. Slitting my wrists in the bath? How melodramatic do you think I feel today? I think you're confusing me with someone else."

There was a quick flicker in Wilson's eyes, so tiny that House almost missed it in the bright light of the bathroom.

"Aha!"

"Aha, what?"

"Aha, this isn't about me."

"I thought everything is always about you," Wilson shot back. He was still drunk, and he was angry. They both knew what this meant. And, to make matters worse, House thought Wilson also looked scared. A volatile combination if ever he had seen one.

"Should I worry about my mirror? You can trash whatever you like, but my piano, the guitars and my records are off limits. Touch those, and you're dead."

Wilson changed his stance, put one foot out to the side a little, hands on his hips. "Says the naked man stuck on the edge of a bathtub in the middle of the night..."

So he was aware that he was essentially holding House hostage at the moment. Wilson was not the golden boy everyone thought he was; an image Wilson himself seemed happy to perpetuate. There was a dark and nasty edge underneath the soft teddy bear. House didn't mind, in fact, he thought it interesting – mostly because it was so elusive. And if he was totally honest with himself, he actually liked that darkness. It was honest. It only came out when Wilson let his guard down or had his back to the wall. Which was more his own position at the moment. But House knew there was also a certain power in letting someone else believe he was in charge.

He shifted to take the weight off his leg a little. This was not a position he would be able to maintain for much longer, soon he would have to move.

"Wilson, go to bed. Or go take a piss and then go to bed."

"Why aren't _you_ in bed?"

_Because the pain is keeping me awake, you idiot_.

"Because I have my beauty routine. Do you think this," House ran his hand from his jaw down to his chest, "comes from nothing? Real beauty is hard work."

Wilson gave an uneasy laugh. He kept eying the scalpel, still not quite convinced House hadn't been up to more than having a bath.

"Go on, pick it up. You want to make sure I don't use it, best way is to keep it safe yourself." Wilson didn't move. "What? You're not scared, are you?"

"Why should I be scared?"

House stretched out his bad leg. "Oh, I don't know. You tell me. You seem to have suddenly developed an irrational fear of everything sharp-edged."

They had known each other a long time, so it couldn't be this simple.

"I'm disappointed, House. This isn't worthy of you. You think I'd fall for this?"

"That means there _is_ something you're hiding, right?"

Wilson shook his head. "Only in House-land does a friend worrying about a knife on your bathroom floor mean that he has something to hide. Anyone else would see it for what it is – well-placed fear for your physical and mental health."

"You are only worried about my health in as far as it relates to you, Wilson." This seemed to hit at least closer to target as Wilson flinched almost imperceptibly. "Don't worry, I've known for years. What goes on with me somehow reflects back on you, or that's what you think anyway. Newsflash – you are not responsible for me. Besides, most people don't really give a toss about me." _And that includes you most days_, he silently added.

Wilson's eyes narrowed, but he didn't reply. Whether that was because House had hit on the truth somehow or because he was still working on an answer, wasn't clear.

"No, this whole song and dance about the knife wasn't about me at all. This is about you, and you're either too scared to admit it or you don't even know it's going on." House shifted his weight again. "But whatever it is, it's getting a little uncomfortable here, so throw me my cane and my clothes too while you're at it."

_A little_ was a serious understatement. Perched as he was on the edge of the tub, his leg began to cramp again. He was also getting cold since he was wearing nothing but a towel around his hips. However, when House started to rub his thigh, Wilson only raised an eyebrow but made no move to hand him clothes or cane. This was some sort of strange stalemate, except that House wasn't sure what Wilson was trying to achieve. And he would bet a lot of money that Wilson himself didn't know it either. Time to put some pressure on before the pain got so bad that he would have to resort to asking for help to get back to bed.

The floor was still covered in assorted band-aids, syringes, bandages and antiseptic wipes. And, of course, there was the scalpel Wilson kept eyeing.

He had to do this now or never because in a very short time he wouldn't have enough energy left. Already, most of it went on not letting the pain show. House slowly bent down to pick up a bandage but also took the scalpel. From the corner of his eye, he saw Wilson tense the moment his hand went towards the blade.

"Want it?" House asked and held out the scalpel towards Wilson. Holding the scalpel in his palm ensured Wilson also had a good view of the wound on House's arm. "It will be safe with you."

Wilson's left eyelid twitched slightly.

House waited, his arm stretched out, cut in full view.

"But it won't be safe with you, right? That's what all this is about." His eyes never left Wilson. "Or _you_ won't be safe with it..."

House let that last line trail off, a little question mark at the end. And then he held his breath. In part, that was to control the pain which flashed through him right then, and in part it was because he was just a little afraid of Wilson's answer. He tried not to fidget.

Because that was what Wilson did – his hands twitched in search of something to do, something to hold on to. He rubbed the back of his head and finally grabbed House's cane to twist around. It was like watching a low current flowing through Wilson, looking for an outlet.

But instead of an outpouring, Wilson reined in whatever it was that was trying to escape, and House got a measured, and only semi-sincere, answer to his question.

"Fine. If you need to know. I-I… did some things in college. I experimented. For a short time. It helped…then. That's it. Happy now?"

"Why would that make me happy?" House put the scalpel aside and leaned back, as far as that was possible half-naked on the edge of a tub. "Especially since it is a lame-ass excuse and only half an answer." There had to be more. This didn't explain anything.

Wilson looked affronted. "What? You don't believe me? I open up about something like this, and you-you don't believe me?"

"You didn't open up. I had to pry that out of you. Like I always do. You, James Evan Wilson, do not open up. Ever." House took a breath. "And I do believe you. You wouldn't lie about this. But it's not the whole story."

Silence. Wilson kept fiddling with House's cane, turning it this way and that.

"Why do you always need to know everything?" It finally burst out of Wilson. He held on to House's cane with both hands. There was anger in his voice, and fear, and a stubborn childishness that didn't seem to fit at all with the Wilson he got to see every day. And yet, it did.

"Because this is me, Wilson. It's what I do. And this is what you do. I poke and demand answers, and you hide." Wilson remained silent. "And now give me my cane. I can't sit here any longer, my leg is killing me."

"But if someone doesn't want to give up something, then you have no right to keep demanding it." There was that stubborn protest again.

House held Wilson dear. He had a lot of patience for what he considered Wilson's essence – that dark stuff he never let out to play. It was the biggest difference between them. He had gotten to know his own shadows over the years and learned to live with them rather than fight them. It was a fight you were bound to lose, eventually. Wilson, on the other hand, appeared to be terrified of the darkness inside himself.

"I'm not demanding anything," House admitted. And yet, it was time for the truth as he saw it. "I just want to know. It's what people do. It's what I do. You think because you're the good, dependable guy helping out, the friend who stands by me most of the time, then that's good enough, then you can keep yourself to yourself. But that's not how it works. Maybe this is why your marriages failed eventually. People want more, they want to understand. Or at least get a glimpse into what's going on inside. Relationships, and friendships, need to be balanced that way." House took a deep breath. He had gone this far, and now he had to take another step. "And you're holding out."

"Fancy that, getting relationship and friendship advice from _you_," Wilson hissed. He looked hurt and angry.

"Yeah, I know. I'm the asshole, and you're the good samaritan who is saving the world from me, and me from myself." Wilson's shoulders were hunched up and he gripped House's cane tightly. The cane House needed back so badly now. "Except, that's also not the whole story."

"I told you. I cut in college. After… after my brother disappeared. Exam stress, and all that." Wilson waved his hand about, belittling his own words. "That's it. Who are you to tell me this isn't the truth?!"

"Because I'm interested in things that don't fit." _And things that fit too well, all the time_, he silently added. "And this doesn't. But who cares, you just keep all that rubbish locked up inside where it won't do anyone any harm." There was a sarcastic edge to his tone now, but he didn't care. His initial amusement had faded. The pain was taking over, and he began to taste anger on the back of his tongue. Damn the consequences.

"You're a coward, Wilson," he added and began to push himself off the edge of the tub. He couldn't sit there any longer, and he needed meds. And what he didn't need was Wilson pretending to be 'normal'.

He wasn't surprised to find himself more than a little wobbly on his feet once he was vertical again. Wilson noticed too and took a step forward – just before House's leg buckled and he turned to catch himself against the sink.

The scalpel clattered to the floor.

Both men stood frozen, one holding on to the sink, the other with arms outstretched, cane in one hand.

With his head down, trying to catch his breath, House stared at his left foot. The scalpel had missed him by an inch.

"Go on," he whispered. "Take it."

Wilson's breath was fast and a little ragged. House closed his eyes and tried to calm his own breath. When he opened them again, Wilson stood an arm's length from him, cane in one hand, the scalpel in the other. Both hands were extended towards House, both a little unsteady.

House understood what he was offering. He had a choice. He could take both – he definitely needed the cane, no debate – and end this miserable display right there and then. Or not.

He took the cane and straightened up. He was now more or less steady against the sink.

He looked over at Wilson who was struggling to make a decision. The scalpel was still in his hand, but he kept it closer now, no longer offering it to House. This was not the time to ask him to leave so House could get dressed, and he'd be damned if he embarked on this spectacle in front of Wilson. So House gave up on his clothes for now.

The silence in the room was only interrupted by the slow drip of the faucet.

Slowly, Wilson emerged from his funk. He looked up and put the scalpel back on the sink.

"I don't need this." It sounded like this decision had needed some serious deliberation, a lot of arguments and counter-arguments.

"You sure?"

Wilson nodded just once.

"But you want it." It wasn't a question anymore in House's eyes. The answer was staring him in the face.

Wilson took a long time to answer. "No..."

"Not _now_..." House knew he had to push a little more. He couldn't leave this, not for Wilson's sake.

"No!" Wilson's head snapped up, eyes blazing. "Th-this is none of your fuckin' business, House!"

"I seem to remember someone mentioning concern for a friend's health recently, hm, let me think, who was that?" Keeping things light was the only way House could think of keeping going.

"Don't tell me I'm like you." Wilson slowly shook his head. "Because I'm not."

"No, you're not. I know what I'm dealing with. I know why I cut when I do. It's a deliberate act when nothing else helps – because the alternative is final." House left it there. They were just starting to speak the same language, he felt.

Wilson cocked his head. "So you admit that you… think about it sometimes?"

House nearly laughed out loud. "It's like you're talking to a stranger. It's me, Wilson. Look at me!" He pulled himself up to full height. "Do I really need to drop that towel too? Because I will if that's what it takes for you to understand."

"But I'm not like you!" Wilson all but shouted it now. "I'm not miserable," he added as an afterthought.

This time, House couldn't help but laugh. He had to sit down on the edge of the tub again because he was laughing so hard. "That's the biggest lie ever to come out of your mouth. And there are a lot of those on a daily basis. You are just as miserable as me. You just don't have the outward marks of misery because you gloss them over. You live behind a steel-reinforced wall nicely painted to blend into your surroundings. You think nobody knows because your facade is untarnished." He saw something building up in Wilson, but there was no turning back now. "But you're wrong. I know. Why do you think I hang out with you? Because deep down, you're just as screwed up as I am."

Wilson looked ready to explode. But he managed not to. "We are _nothing_ alike. You are a miserable ass who spreads his misery around and drags everyone else down with him."

"Au contraire, my friend. I give everyone around me the chance to feel better because they're not like me. At least they think they're not. And yet, I'm not the one scared of a knife. I'm not the one here contemplating suicide."

There it was. They both stared at the word he had just spat out on the floor between them.

"Neither am I," hissed Wilson.

House heart beat furiously, and he would bet Wilson's did the same. He could tell Wilson wanted to turn away. But he didn't. He wanted this fight, he wanted this to come out. At least House could help him drag it out into the light.

"Liar."

That did it. Wilson lost it. But it wasn't what House expected. There was no explosion. It was as if he had gently tapped an almost inflated balloon with a pin. All the fight and anger went out of Wilson with an epic sigh that sounded like a sob.

House watched his friend fumble for the door frame behind him and slowly slide to the floor with his back against it. He watched Wilson cover his face and shake his head. He waited.

"We agree not to look, as a society, as friends. You and me, we agree not to look." It came out quietly from behind Wilson's hands.

"Oh, shut up, Wilson. When did we ever agree this? You stick your beak into my affairs all the time. So, spill!"

Wilson lowered his hands and looked at House. There was a lot of anguish and pain in his eyes, but he wasn't crying.

"I can't, House," he whispered. "I can't. Don't you get it? It's like there's this dark mass of rage and pain in me, and I don't know what'll happen when I let go. What it will destroy. Who it will destroy..."

House just nodded. If he had been able to he would've slid down onto the floor next to Wilson, but he couldn't. So he stayed where he was, holding himself very still.

"It's been there since… as long as I can think. But it grew beyond what I thought possible when Danny vanished. I-I had to do something. I cut… for a while. And it helped. But I still feel like, like I've got no right to… to even think about it. I mean, look at you..." He trailed off.

"Yeah, look at me." House sneered but decided to let this go. "It gates more than physical pain, Wilson. Pain is pain."

Wilson nodded slowly. "Yeah. Pain is pain." He thought for a moment. "How do you deal with this, House? That lure, that temptation?"

"You mean, why don't I just off myself when it gets bad?"

Wilson winced. "Yes...no. You said you have your plan… how can you have one and not put it into action?"

"I don't play with it. Having a plan that'll work is enough, to know that it's there, that I can when I need to. Actually, having that plan is one of the few things keeping me going sometimes." Wilson still didn't seem convinced. "But you need to acknowledge that things can get that bad. Or that they _are_ that bad. That this is an option for you, a way out. You need to acknowledge that rage and pain." He hesitated for a moment, but then kept going. "Because if you live behind reinforced walls like you and keep it all nicely locked away, you need to know what you're living with. You better get to know those demons or else..."

"...or what?"

"They'll eat you alive. And nobody will hear you scream behind those high walls with the lovely facade."

House decided to leave Wilson with this image. He had already said a lot more than he had ever intended to. He knew there were two things getting mixed up here: Wilson's old episodes of cutting after Danny's disappearance, and his general suicidal tendencies – which he wasn't able to acknowledge. Wilson didn't seem to see the difference, though. But maybe this was enough for one night. This wasn't something you could fix overnight. There was no solution to this, no quick fix. But maybe he had set something in motion tonight. He heaved himself off the tub and went to pick up his clothes from the floor. Seeing that they were completely damp, he left them there and headed towards his bedroom.

Wilson was still sprawled on the floor. House prodded his feet with his cane.

"Go and get us both a drink while I get dressed. Guess I've been preening and grooming for nothing tonight."

Wilson snorted and got up. "Don't flatter yourself, you're not that much to look at. No beauty products can fix that."

House grinned and watched Wilson cast one more look at the scalpel and then disappear towards the living room. "And turn the thermostat back up. It's freezing in here."

He made his way into the bedroom to find some clean and dry clothes. Instead of pulling open the drawers, he stood in front of the dresser for a moment. Both hands resting flat on top, he closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath.


End file.
